Chapter 5 - The Mistress’s Awakening
-5-
While Nathan and his father were discovering that their reign of entitlement had come to a permanent, unceremonious end at The Gilded Spoon, another foundational pillar of Nathan’s carefully constructed double life was about to experience a very rude awakening.
Brooke Lawson, executive assistant, corporate climber, and part-time mistress, was currently sitting in the plush, sunlit living room of the luxury two-bedroom condo in Lincoln Park. It was a condo Nathan had purchased for her three months ago using a shell company and funds funneled out of our restaurant’s catering budget. Brooke had spent the last twenty-four hours sipping champagne, admiring the skyline view, and waiting for Nathan to arrive with the news that he had successfully discarded his wife and child to start their glamorous new life together.
Instead, at 11:30 AM, her front door buzzer rang with a sharp, insistent buzz.
Assuming it was Nathan arriving with apologies and coffee, Brooke hurried across the hardwood floor in a silk bathrobe, swinging the door wide open with a radiant smile.
The smile froze instantly on her face.
Standing on the welcome mat wasn't Nathan. It was Marcus Vance, flanked by a county sheriff’s deputy and a commercial locksmith carrying a heavy metal tool bag.
“Brooke Lawson?” Marcus asked, checking a legal document clipped to his leather folio.
“Yes?” Brooke stammered, her hands instinctively clutching the lapels of her silk robe. “Who are you? What is this?”
“Marcus Vance, corporate counsel for Reed Hospitality Group,” Marcus introduced himself smoothly, stepping past her uninvited into the foyer, followed closely by the deputy and the locksmith. “We are here to execute an emergency asset recovery writ on behalf of the primary property owner.”
“Asset recovery?!” Brooke shrieked, her voice pitching upward in alarm as she backed away into the living room. “This is my home! Nathan bought this for me! You can’t just walk in here!”
“Miss Lawson, public property records and corporate banking audits confirm that this condominium was purchased using misappropriated operational funds embezzled directly from Reed Hospitality Group without board authorization,” Marcus explained, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “Under state law, fraudulently acquired assets purchased with stolen corporate capital remain the property of the defrauded entity. In plain English: this condo belongs to Elena Reed.”
Brooke’s face turned the color of curdled milk. The glamorous, untouchable mistress veneer cracked completely, revealing a panicked, cornered young woman who suddenly realized she had hitched her wagon to a sinking ship.
“No, no, that’s impossible!” Brooke babbled, tears of fury springing to her eyes. “Nathan told me his wife was a broke nobody! He said he controlled all the money! He promised me this condo was legally mine!”
“It appears Mr. Reed lied to you about quite a few things,” Marcus replied dryly. He gestured to the locksmith, who was already sliding a heavy-duty master key into the front door deadbolt. “You have thirty minutes to collect your personal clothing, cosmetics, and electronic devices. Anything else—including the designer furniture, the television, and the jewelry in the bedroom—stays put.”
“You can’t do this! I’ll call Nathan right now!” Brooke screamed, reaching frantically into the pocket of her robe for her phone.
She pulled out her gold-plated iPhone and dialed Nathan’s number on speaker.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Then a recorded automated voice broke through the speaker: “The number you have dialed has been blocked by the subscriber. Please check the number and try again.”
Brooke stared at the phone screen in absolute horror. She dialed it again. Same automated rejection.
“He... he blocked me,” she whispered, the horrifying realization washing over her like a bucket of ice water. Nathan Reed, the man who had whispered sweet promises of a future together while hiding behind my financial security, had cut her off the exact second his own empire collapsed. He didn't care about Brooke; he didn't care about his parents; he cared about one thing and one thing only—himself.
“Locksmith, change the locks,” Marcus instructed calmly, turning his back on her as she sank onto the sofa, sobbing hysterically into her hands.
As Marcus walked out of the condo and dialed my cell phone to report the successful repossession of the Lincoln Park property, I was sitting at my kitchen island helping Lily paint another masterpiece.
My phone buzzed. I answered it calmly.
May you like
“Property recovered, Elena,” Marcus reported with a faint chuckle. “Brooke is currently packing her designer shoes into a cardboard box while crying tears of profound regret.”
“Good,” I said, smiling down at Lily as she dabbed a brush into bright blue paint. “Let her keep the shoes, Marcus. She’s going to need them to walk all the way back to wherever she came from.”
